


The Hunt

by Perelka_L



Category: Naruto
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt, Intersex Character, Itama is Intersex and I will die on this hill, Itama whump, M/M, Murder, Obsession, Other, Other ships hinted at but nothing big, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Sorry baby I love you, Underage Rape/Non-con, Warring States Period (Naruto), Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22454647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perelka_L/pseuds/Perelka_L
Summary: Itama's death, but worse.So much worse.
Relationships: Senju Itama/Original Uchiha Character(s), Uchiha Shurama/Senju Itama
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> So, few things first:
> 
> Shurama Uchiha is how I named the guy that killed Itama. You may remember him by having a very scary face and being the guy that eyed Itama evilly before slaughtering him. Technically not an OC. I just named an already existing guy. So, the whole idea of ship involving those two came from fanarts I saw on pixiv and later I bullied some people into writing me this but, ultimately, the whole ship came from the idea that Itama being killed by Shurama had a more creepy background. 
> 
> A friendly reminder that killing squads are not canon. 
> 
> If you spot that I didn't tag something, please do tell me, but I think tags I gave are enough of a warning about the content. I accept no complaints.

_ “He was not thinking of anything and did not want to think. But one image rose after another, incoherent scraps of thought without beginning or end passed through his mind. He kept dwelling on images of flowers, he fancied a charming flower garden, a bright, warm, almost hot day, a holiday—Trinity day. A fine, sumptuous country cottage in the English taste overgrown with fragrant flowers, with flower beds going round the house; the porch, wreathed in climbers, was surrounded with beds of roses. He noticed particularly in the windows nosegays of tender, white, heavily fragrant narcissus bending over their bright, green, thick long stalks. He was reluctant to move away from them, but he went up the stairs and came into a large, high drawing-room and again everywhere—at the windows, the doors on to the balcony, and on the balcony itself—were flowers. The floors were strewn with freshly-cut fragrant hay, the windows were open, a fresh, cool, light air came into the room. The birds were chirruping under the window, and in the middle of the room, on a table covered with a white satin shroud, stood a coffin. The coffin was covered with white silk and edged with a thick white frill; wreaths of flowers surrounded it on all sides. Among the flowers lay a girl in a white muslin dress, with her arms crossed and pressed on her bosom, as though carved out of marble. But her loose fair hair was wet; there was a wreath of roses on her head. The stern and already rigid profile of her face looked as though chiselled of marble too, and the smile on her pale lips was full of an immense unchildish misery and sorrowful appeal. Svidrigaïlov knew that girl; there was no holy image, no burning candle beside the coffin; no sound of prayers: the girl had drowned herself. She was only fourteen, but her heart was broken. And she had destroyed herself, crushed by an insult that had appalled and amazed that childish soul, had smirched that angel purity with unmerited disgrace and torn from her a last scream of despair, unheeded and brutally disregarded, on a dark night in the cold and wet while the wind howled....” _

from Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

He spotted the boy one day on the battlefield. 

The early noon was cool but not cold, morning chill still lingering in the air. Spilled blood warmed exposed skin enough for a little while, even if the wound was your own and everything else was wrapped in thick fireproof material. Shurama moved slowly across the battlefield, looking around for a way out, sometimes throwing a fire jutsu when whatever Senju came too close or entrancing them with Sharingan before slamming a short sword through the armor between the ribs. 

One of the opponents brought him too close for his liking into the heat of the battle and now the trick was to get back to the back of the battlefield without exposing the fan on his back too much. 

He cursed his own carelessness, but he managed to retreat far enough to be able to watch the battlefield while having a moment to kneel down and wrap some material around his left arm. Wound wasn’t very deep nor life-threatening but pain and blood steadily dripping from his fingertips was enough of a distraction. He removed kunai from his thigh, pressing hand hard to it before wrapping it up as neatly as possible.

Shurama sat down and watched. He could join the fray of the battle, but he had no wish to die this day, especially from something as dumb as those two wounds which looked like mere grazes in comparison to what he lived through years ago. He doubted Tajima would want to see him dead this much as well.

He looked for his brother among clashing men and here he was, as always, battling Senju clanshead. It was quite normal for the clansfolk to seek out people they maybe used to know before the alliances shifted and changed, a strange rivalry forming over time, pairs falling into practiced dances on the battlefields, growing more deadly as each sought how to counter the next move of their partner. Shurama couldn’t see it but he could imagine Tajima’s wide grin and his sharingan burning with flood of emotions.

He glanced around, again. He saw one of his nephews - probably Madara but he wasn’t entirely sure, children’s chakra systems still developing and shifting - in the distance, battling two of adult Senjus. Disinterestedly he watched the child slaughter them. He wouldn’t expect anything else from him, really.

There was a flash of a new chakra signature, though, unknown and yet familiar enough. Shurama followed it, interested - it was strong and yet it tasted so new, clearly someone’s first time on the battlefield. Apparently a child but with enough chakra reserves to be noticed if someone wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings so desperately and Shurama had such a luxury, for this moment. 

It was a delight to watch this new child soldier from afar. He looked so tiny between all the armored bodies, only a blur of strange white and black hair being the small visual Shurama could follow. His small hands were clearly accustomed with sword, most likely trained since he could grasp simplest objects in his hands. Sometimes, even a blade was not needed, Shurama noted with surprise, boy skillfully sharpening his chakra and slipping between enemies to cut deep and bleed - a perfect weaponization of skills of a medic, so astonishing for someone this young.

All in all, a child soldier that one day would bloom beautifully into a hardened warrior. 

Shurama had no idea whose child it was but that was one dangerous Senju, ready to blossom when fed enough blood. It was best to warn Tajima after the battle. It was best to trim the boy a little. After all, it’s always easier to rip out a sapling than take down a tree.

With this thought, Shurama ensured he could walk without pain distracting him too badly and returned to the fray, the sun starting to beat down on all the soldiers mercilessly.

Much, much later, after counting the wounded and the dead, after counting all the equipment and alive, after the sky turned pink and after Tajima praised his sons, Shurama could finally describe to his brother all that he saw, strange small Senju medic killing the Uchiha left and right. 

Tajima set down a cup with warm tea down, one of the methods of unwinding after the battles, his hands grasping the ceramic tightly to hide the way his hands trembled. He eyed his brother in wonder. 

“Maybe he is Senju Butsuma’s son.” Tajima said slowly and Shurama knew he touched a sensitive subject with a simple question, but he had no way of knowing this beforehand. “I know of three of his sons, the fourth was too young, and he more or less matches the description. Especially the hair.”

“Where does your interest come from?” His brother asked, and Shurama blinked. The question wasn’t an order nor a demand, merely a sign of curiosity, floating in the air like insects around a lamp - usually harmless but mildly annoying. Cicadas started to play, another summer filled with spilled blood blooming around them, nights becoming warmer and warmer, though insects these days preferred piles of corpses to lamps. 

“Just wondering,” Shurama answered. “A child using medical jutsu so early seems like an impossibility, his chakra control must be astonishing and he seems to be not lacking in other departments as well. That’s a massive threat just waiting to spring on us all and…” He wondered if he should continue. They ignored Butsuma’s children too many times. One happened to have  _ mokuton _ , and they all spotted the warning sign all too late and now a thought of touching the Senju heir were a mere fantasy. The less was said about Butsuma’s other son, the best. Those red eyes were utterly vile and Uchiha blood clung to his skin all too easily. Third one seemed to avoid battlefields, being sent to, apparently, ambush squads, but apparently he was effective enough.

Fourth one was this Itama child. 

Tajima nodded, understanding the unspoken, but said nothing, drinking the tea in silence least until Madara and Izuna came over, politely greeting their uncle before coming closer to father and chatting excitedly about their experiences and training. Shurama allowed himself to steal a sight of his brother smiling at his sons before excusing himself to leave.

He was just worried. That was all.

Tajima was a perfectly capable leader but his personal history with the Senju leader was, in Shurama’s humble opinion, making it hard for him to see the full picture, through a clear lense. If only those children were someone else’s, Shurama had no doubt Tajima would see no qualms for slaughtering them the second they seemed to stand out a little bit in the forest of Senju soldiers. 

Something Shurama struggled to comprehend, after witnessing Butsuma personally kill off three of Tajima’s children. The Senju stared straight into Tajima’s eyes as he did so, and Tajima could only watch his children’s blood stain his hands. Shurama remembered Tajima’s hysterical sobbing after the battlefield as he clung to each small body, holding them desperately as his eyes bled.

Warm night turned into a warmer day.

Senju camp seemed to retreat a bit, seemingly a victory, but Shurama knew Senju losses weren’t heavy enough to be one. No, it was a mere skirmish on the path, not much else. 

Few weeks later, one summer day, the Senju wiped out Hagoromo clan, their territory left to rot as unnatural wild tansy climbed the abandoned buildings and coltsfoot crept between the feet. Tajima bit his lip until it drew blood as he watched in silence the bodies in a tall grass. Uchiha and Hagoromo were allies, but no one suspected Senju would be so quick to strike them down. They were at war, that was true, but for so much longer than Uchiha and Senju were - and yet the Senju, after years of skirmish, just decided to decimate the entire clan.

Soon, they found out that Hagoromo killed Kawarama Senju, third son of Butsuma Senju.

Uchiha torched the whole thing down.

After that, Shurama no longer had time to train with Madara and Izuna, as he wont to do when battles were kept to a minimum, no, now the trainings were replaced with stench of blood and putrefaction. Izuna seemed to lose his excitement coming from his raising killcount while Madara shut off to nearly everyone except Izuna or disappeared for long periods of time from camp. Nobody batted an eye.

Battles were intense but at least Shurama managed to spend less time at medics than before - he wanted to make himself believe he was more careful but this time the chances to watch the youngest of Butsuma’s sons kept him firmly away in long range. 

He couldn’t help but marvel at boy’s abilities in moments he had between one breathful of fire and another, but he could also spot something else that kept his glance drawn to him.

There was a weakness hidden well in his eyes, a softness on his lips that wasn't just a gentle curl of a young face, no. The boy was deadly, undeniably so, but under steel-like gaze there was something more delicate and trembling. 

Without a doubt, nearly all of them didn’t wish to be here and now, battling and fighting. The masks they learned to wear since they were put on the battlefields, something to be put on without sparing a thought to protect hearts from the war, were one of the first lessons one had to undertake by themselves. Later, some cast them more easily, around family and friends, some struggled to take them off so deeply that they molded the masks onto their faces, finding comfort in emotionlessness. 

Most children struggled to put them on at first. Itama seemed to be such a case.

Shurama watched and battle after battle he could witness the way the softness slowly gave way to something more cold - until the boy got wounded, once. Shurama saw tears as boy pressed chakra-filled hands to his stomach. Shurama couldn’t tear his eyes away. The sounds of men and women around him went quiet. Until he saw the child being approached by his older brother - the white demon who plunged a sword into spines of anyone that dared to come closer to his little brother in such a vulnerable state - Shurama forgot he was also a part of the battle. 

He was glad nobody noticed. He had no explanation, neither for others, nor for himself. 

A month passed like this, skirmish and Shurama balancing out his role as a long-range fighter and his personal interest. He couldn’t quite explain why this boy interested him so. One night in onsen, after washing away the blood, he decided that it was all due to Tajima’s unwillingness to deal with the youngest Senju heir. If Tajima were blind, Shurama will be his eyes in this regard. It was only fitting. 

Shurama mentally noted down all Itama’s developments, all his skills and abilities while trying to find ways to counteract them. The child relied on blades and perfect chakra control, not using any elemental jutsu to wound - he didn’t need to, as a fingers grazing skin would be enough to cause internal bleeding. Shurama did check the corpses after the battlefield, he saw those giant bruises under dead skin. 

In lingering moments, such rare quiet moments during summers, he allowed himself to wonder. What was Itama like outside battlefields? How much smaller the child was without his armor on? Would he heal the wounded after the fights? How did he train?

He himself had less time to train than usual and it wasn’t easy to find clansmen with similar strengths to Itama and finding ways to counteract them. Tajima watched him then, but Shurama didn’t mind at all, until one evening, after the battle, Tajima poured him some tea. 

“You worry me.” He said, gesturing for Shurama to sit and Shurama knew that it wasn’t a mere suggestion anymore. He sat down and accepted the tea. 

Tajima stared at him for long minutes, eyes dark, trembling hands cradling a teacup, a little bit of dried blood stuck behind a fingernail. There was a small spider sitting on Tajima’s forearm, waiting.

“You will not convince me that all of this is a mere preparation to strike this child down, Shurama.” Tajima finally said. “More and more time you spend watching him, and as much as you are doing as well as always…” A moment, a hesitation, something Tajima only allowed himself to express with his family - and Tajima looked genuinely worried. “What is the matter with you? Why has this child ensnared you so?”

And Shurama shook his head, allowing himself a smile, despite feeling something curl inside him. “I am merely preparing myself, Tajima-niisama,” He said. “I don’t wish to have another son of the Senju striking fear into everyone the second they appear on the battlefield. I just watch him, that’s all.”

And Tajima raised an eyebrow at him, but drank his tea in silence. The spider from his forearm disappeared somewhere and Shurama felt queasy for a moment, never comfortable with his brother’s summons, especially now.

For there was truth in Tajima’s words - he called him blind but it was Shurama that was blind himself, blind to the way thoughts about the child stole his time away, during training, war, and time for himself. 

He wanted to believe it was just caution, he was being sensible. It was all too easy to let his thoughts drift towards this child. He wondered what color his eyes had.

“Apologies for worrying you. Maybe I am being too paranoid.”

Tajima nodded slowly. He seemed relieved, and it sufficed for now. The minutes of the evening went by, and the night was dark, moon almost entirely dark, merely a sliver in the night sky.

And yet, just before sleep, Shurama through half-opened eyes, saw that boy before him. A shape, barely visible in little light of barely-there moon and lamps swinging in the wind outside. He was wearing a delicate but simple thin white kimono, seemingly translucent in near-darkness. 

Before Shurama could react, wonder if it was a dream or reality, he fell asleep, but when he woke up he caught himself wondering about Itama first thing in the morning. In the early hours of dawn, turning back and forth on his futon, he wondered how Itama’s skin would  _ really  _ look under such a soft and fragile material. 

This wasn’t normal. Shurama sometimes during battles used genjutsu to ensnare the victims, grasp their minds tightly to cut their thoughts and instincts short only to slip a kunai between the ribs, minds not registering the danger and pain and death until it was too late. This boy, he felt, did exactly this to him. He could accuse this child of casting a spell on him, making him drunk on mere thoughts, like finest genjutsu breaking down and rebuilding his thoughts in a dreamlike logic - but this was reality. Itama was always somewhere at the back of his mind, lingering like a spirit or malaise, with every day haunting more and more of his waking hours. Was it during him training the older children, was it during reduced meals, was it when he carefully cleaned what remained of his armor and weaponry (some taken off the bodies whenever he could), his thoughts always drifted towards the young Senju. 

In his dreams, Itama was like a spirit, fleeting and out of reach. Until he wasn’t and Shurama forced himself to forget.

It was an obsession that he  _ had to _ stop. 

He threw himself harder into training, occupying his time as much as possible until he collapsed every day into bed, but that didn’t last as long as he wished.

One day, he spotted Itama, one day when the battle swept him too close to the frontlines.

And the boy spotted him.

In an instant the boy turned and charged at him - and he knew why, the child saw that one thing he was so eager to hide, he knew his eyes widened and focused, drinking in the details - his Sharingan was good, and he saw so much of Itama from afar but never close, this close. 

Itama noticed his attention, the way Shurama’s stance shifted, that little softness and concluded the man was an easy target and those small hands formed claws, ablaze with knife-sharp chakra and Shurama could just stare in wonder because the boy’s eyes were  _ bleeding  _ with killing intent, and all Shurama could do was bask it in, witness small Senju’s hunger for his own death until mere few inches separated them-

A gust of wind hit Itama, jutsu strong enough to make an adult stop, stronger still to make a small child collapse. Tajima, gunbai in one hand and a sword in the other, appeared out of nowhere.

“What the hell are you doing??!!” Tajima yelled at Shurama, before throwing himself after a child, now struggling to get up with heavy armor weighing him down. The armor wasn’t a problem for Tajima, it never was, the man found his way to so many, many soft bodies of protected Senju. He twirled the sword in his hand, ready to stab the child.

A furious roar announced arrival of Butsuma, his odachi stopping Tajima’s blade from hitting the target. Tajima in a second forgot about the boy, old instincts taking over, their bloodlusts mingling together again. Shurama knew better and retreated to a safer distance, but even then he sent one parting glance to surroundings. Itama ran away, assisted by his brother (the white ghost, the demon) and that wasn’t someone that Shurama ever wanted to face.

He didn’t even have time to calm down, to try and think through, process, what has happened at all. Tajima approached him after the battle, after assessing the damage and counting the dead and wounded, knuckles white on a blood-splattered gunbai. They both dripped blood anyway, most of it not their own.

“What was that.” It wasn’t Tajima’s softer tone dedicated to his closest family, no, that was Tajima the clanshead in command, his hawkish eyes sharp and voice cold. Shurama didn’t wish to talk, but he had no choice, not when Tajima presented himself like that. 

Shurama merely stared straight into sharingan-red eyes. He had nothing to say. Tajima scowled. 

“Brother,” he hissed. “Either you will kill the boy or I will.”

Shurama finally found his voice again. “You wouldn't,” he said quietly. “You wouldn’t do this. He’s  _ mine _ .” 

“I don’t care.” Shurama opened his mouth to interrupt him, but Tajima shut him up with an angry glance. “You might just as well try and control yourself, but we both know that won’t happen anymore. So either you will kill this boy or I will. And trust me, I  _ will  _ find pleasure in spilling blood of Butsuma’s kin.”

He now realized - couldn’t stop thinking of Itama as  _ his _ . It was his boy. His to own, his to possess, his to battle and his to kill. The mere thought of anyone else slaughtering this child made his blood boil and eyes turn red - but the boy was young, so young. He may be skilled, but there were beasts out there in the battlefield, eager to devour the inexperienced child in one swoop. Tajima was one of such beasts, his sons closely following into his footsteps. 

The boy was  _ his  _ to kill. It was a statement, a fact. If he wanted to cling to this reality he created in which Itama was tied to him as much as possible, he had to kill the boy himself, the sooner the better.

He wished to know the child more, feed into his obsession, but he was forced to accept that he had to be the one to still his heart. A pity, really.

Would he assassinate him? Kill him on a battlefield? Shurama wondered on the possibilities as he sharpened his sword a few days later. 

That boy was a killer, a murderous beast beaten under the soft skin - he wouldn't be satisfied with a stealth kill. He wished to lick the blood of his fallen kin by himself off the boy's multicoloured fingers like sweetest of nectars as the boy struggled, young Senju thirsting for Uchiha blood.

Such thoughts were intoxicating and merely fueled him. 

When Shurama dreamt, he could see him. Sometimes the child writhed under him, eyes filled with terror, blood on his teeth and tongue kissed away as Shurama killed the boy slowly, playing with how this small body reacted to more and more of blood sinking into the earth. Other times, the boy was on top of him, white and orange lilies woven into hair, a gentle smile never reaching those dark eyes as small fingers pried the older man open and counted his ribs. 

Shurama lied awake after one such dream, moon a barely visible sliver of white disappearing more and more with each day. It was dark, silent. He sat up on his futon, pointlessly trying to focus on anything to distract him from an echo of a child’s touch, but the darkness was near-absolute. With the sharingan, maybe he could discern the shapes, focus, anything - it would be a waste of energy, he decided, as well as he simply didn’t wish for a distraction.

It was so difficult to stop indulging himself, but there was a spider on his ceiling, as large as his hand, watching him. Reminding him.

Tajima never killed any Butsuma’s offspring, but Shurama never doubted when he said he wouldn’t hesitate to steal Itama away by means of murder. Maybe he’d use that small body to feed his summons, just to drive the point in. 

Shurama wasn’t sure what to do, but decided that the best thing he could do is avoid battlefields - but then, he was a soldier and his clan was struggling too much to afford anyone not being active during war. 

He wanted to put his fingers on this double-colored face, neck, chest, trace the irregular pattern formed by clashing colors. Mark it. See if marks and bruises he could leave behind were any different in color, how differently blood would stain this skin. 

And he had to resist. Next best thing he could do was start going on patrol missions - disrupting any communication or transport was an easy enough of a task, but crucial regardless. 

Tajima’s eyes lingered on Shurama for a little longer when he requested to be assigned to patrols, but ultimately didn’t comment nor asked questions. Asked him to stay careful, but that was all. On that day, Shurama went to bed much earlier, in an attempt to shift his sleeping cycle to fit the night patrols. He did feel better in the darkness, but he was no longer young and ordering his body around was harder with each passing year. He needed to be patient, but he itched to hunt. Imagined scents of lillies and sounds of a gentle breath hitching right next to his ear weren’t helping at all.

Two days later he went on a first patrol, and on every night from then on.

And Shurama wondered - would he find Itama here? As much as boy was sometimes seen on the battlefields, he was no regular. It would imply that either the boy was allowed to have some time for himself (which Senju’s wealth would allow but Shurama heard about what kind of man Senju clanshead is) or had other duties. Regardless, some figured young minds not fogged by routine and expectations, made children into terrifyingly efficient killers, and some softer adults’ hands still hesitated when seeing that their opponent was a mere child (and soft people never lived long anyway). 

Usually kids got easier tasks - passing information was easier if children learned how to use their sizes and weights for stealth, slipping through borders or hiding behind adults’ backs when entering towns on more neutral grounds. Shurama wondered if Itama was maybe such an asset - the boy  _ was  _ small, and he seemed to have inclination towards stealth, even when his looks were this characteristic. At first he rejected such a notion, the child was a  _ medic _ , how preposterous to throw such a precious skill on such a risk? But then, he was a Senju. They had plenty of medics. Terrifyingly plenty. 

(The notion of the body being healed over and over again until it could be healed no more was revolting for the Uchiha, who threw themselves and blazed and burned until there was nothing left and they could close their eyes and choose death.)

If he were to catch Itama like this, on a patrol, he would be forced to kill the boy. At the same time, he would be alone with Itama. This would be the closest and the most private that he would be able to have with him. Shurama didn’t want to meet Itama like this. Shurama wanted to pry him open if they met, and such was impossible when boy was merely a blur of colors: green armor, those strange white and black hair and crimson he carelessly spilled around during the battles. Shurama wanted to meet Itama like this.

For few weeks Shurama hunted, returning to his futon every morning exhausted after a night-long strain but calm and peaceful. Dreams of Itama were mere whispers, small arms curled around his neck, fingers playing with his untied hair. In those quiet moments when he lied on his back, if he opened his eyes just enough for light to barely fall through his dark eyelashes, he could see the boy. 

Itama smiled at him, blood curling out of corner of his lips, and then Shurama opened his eyes and the boy was gone. 

Patrols stretched on. 

Sometimes they were a mere control of passersby through territory Uchiha. Sometimes they just checked on civilians traveling the routes. Sometimes they killed the bandits. Sometimes they used civilians to bait the bandits. Sometimes they checked on shinobi, some merely grazing the borders and some being just allies using what treaties gave them.

Sometimes, there were Senju. They didn’t hunt all of them down, squads being too fast or too big to be taken on. Sometimes, though, they did. 

The autumn was closing in, air becoming sharper and colder as nights grew longer and Shurama slept less and less during the days. The battles became scarce as well, oncoming winter meaning a period of silence in shinobi world, clans more focused on surviving.

Shurama was well aware that Senju had no need for a break - they were rich, they had all the wood they ever wanted to burn or trade away. Uchiha, on the other hand, desperately needed to tighten the belt as cold settled in. All the other clans had their struggled as well and respected those few months of unofficial peace.

Most likely, this unspoken truce was somehow connected to Tajima disappearing from clan territory for long days or even weeks during harshest snowfalls. Shurama never asked, and he could guess the answer but he’d loathe to have his guesses confirmed.

But now it was still shimotsuki, and even when constantly moving around, when trying to keep his senses sharp - the cold was sharper, able to slip underneath his clothes. It was a little bit harder to patrol efficiently, so he and his group - four young men, chosen by Tajima - decided to split. There was no threat of any larger squads crossing their path this time of year, best they could stumble on were messengers or civilians.

And so, Shurama was alone in the forest. 

He hugged himself, trying to make his haori protect him better from the cold - he couldn’t afford any heavier clothes due to combat reasons. Any thicker, cold-appropriate material would be a danger when close to katon, as well as could reduce his mobility and speed. For now, his old bones trembled so he merely trudded on, shivering but silent and sharingan eyes open wide. Over time, he will allow his younger clanfolk to take over his role here. They were young, still hot-blooded and eager to show off and their lives would be threatened less in cold, snow-covered forests. 

For now, though...

For now Shurama could swear that he was hallucinating.

He stopped mid-step, watching - and here he was, Senju Itama, in full armor, silently but swiftly moving through the forest.

Shurama would recognize those hair even without the blood-red clarity of Sharingan, now so much more sharp as his heart started to beat faster. He held his breath, eyes wide, but his feet gained speed.

They were so, so close to the border, a small place that some chose as a shortcut away from Hagoromo’s dead territory - what Senju didn’t take was now filling in with Nara deer and murderous shadows and more murderous minds. Nearly all voided them, and Senju seemed to be no exception. 

And so such a gift was bestowed upon him. 

It was such a long time since he dreamt about Itama, his thoughts only sometimes swirling back in wonder, so now the sight of the boy was like an electric shock, like a bucket of cold water on his desires and wants that he put to sleep with routine and lack of contact.

He followed him, and Itama seemed to not notice him - and then they went out into a clearing and drying glass was stained with blood and a crow was nibbling on a fresh corpse. Men lying around wore Senju crests.

It seemed Itama wasn’t alone, following a larger squad intent on clearing out a way for him. Itama immediately ran to them, eyes wide, throat letting out a sob and the boy pressed one hand to his mouth to keep quiet, other turning the bodies around, assessing, trying to find survivors, desperately feeling out arteries in necks in hope of finding pulse. One of more mutilated bodies was nibbled on by crows. 

Shurama watched. It seemed that his tempo was much more slow than his partners, and so they clashed with the Senju and carried on. Shurama maybe wasn’t keeping up with the tempo, but he was the one that received a treat. He slowly pulled out kunai and prepared a scroll with large shurikens.

When Itama straightened up, Shurama ran to him and Itama turned and there - there - he looked straight into his eyes, mismatched eyes falling into the trap blood-red glow and the hands Itama raised to - protect? attack? - froze halfway through. He allowed the boy to turn fully towards him, drinking in the sight of Itama in this silence, in this darkness pierced by sharingan, unmoving and all for him for him  _ for him _ .

His skin, now that Shurama could still look, was strangest of sights, darker peach giving way to unearthly white paleness that he heard of when some of his kin were speaking of another Senju child soldier. He briefly wondered - were Senju just like this or was it a result of some jutsu or unheard of art? Or was their blood so spoiled and rotten, so impure that they produced such strange children? There was the child of the forest, there was the white demon, all Butsuma’s spawn that in their strangeness spilled so much blood. There was one more child but he was killed by Hagoromo rather quickly, but no matter the age, Shurama could bet that if not that death, the child would be like all the other Senju shinobi. 

And there was Itama, who was no ordinary boy, his background screaming it out as much as boy’s headcount, and yet he was so small and trembling, his tiny and still delicate - but covered in blood of his clansmen - hands curling in the air, twitching, fighting with genjutsu Shurama cast on him. His eyes slowly filled with tears.

Shurama came closer, dazed. He couldn’t quite believe it was so - so easy. He twirled kunai in his hand, wondering. He could kill Itama. It would be so simple. Just get rid of the problem right here, right now.

But on the other hand - the boy is all  _ his _ . In this darkness, in this cold cold night he could take what he declared as  _ his _ . 

Shurama slowly reached out and traced that soft cheek with his knuckles. There were tears now falling on them from those wide and big eyes, boy crying - such an uncommon sight for a Senju whose philosophy was turn away from tears for sake of reaction. But then, not like the boy could defend himself.

He reached out for Itama’s headband when Itama suddenly stepped forwards and before Shurama felt his genjutsu shatter he registered those small fingers curled into claws, chakra bleeding into blades eager to slice and cut and before Shurama could move away fast enough, the boy grazed his arm. 

Fuck, that hurt, but shouldn’t be too bad. He backed away as fast as he could without stumbling but boy didn’t follow, breathing harshly and sobs wrecking his body.

“Don’t touch me!” Itama yelled, voice raw. Through the mist this scream left behind, Shurama noticed blood on boy’s teeth and tongue and lips. This brat bit himself, tongue or cheek, didn’t he? He was trained well, it seemed.

Shurama wished to taste him, wished that this desire didn’t suddenly overtake his thoughts so.

Itama suddenly turned and ran - so suddenly Shurama again reacted with a slight delay, but he followed and aimed a kunai at the boy which quickly buried itself in boy’s calf, hitting right between gaps in steel fishnet. Itama cried out in pain and before he fell, Shurama was there, catching him and throwing him back to the middle of the clearing. The boy slammed against the stone in the middle, gasping out in pain.

Shurama followed, all the time not tearing the eyes away from the child struggling to get up. One of his small hands grasped his ankle, feeling out a wound, immediately removing the kunai and pressing chakra-bright hand to his ankle. Shurama smirked at that - surely the child didn’t want to heal  _ here and now _ ? Larger shuriken in hand, he lazily came closer and Itama raised his other hand in warning, fingers splayed wide and promising to shred anything underneath the layer of skin. A kunai covered in blood lied nearby and only now Shurama realized that Itama had seemingly no weaponry. 

Itama stared at him, looking at his lips and collar, careful to not have eyes attracted by the red, even if most likely his sight was all blurred from tears flowing down his cheeks - but his teeth were clenched tight.

So young, so inexperienced. Tears visible on mismatched eyelashes made Shurama hunger. Oh how he wished to come closer, put hands on boy’s face and make him look, truly  _ look _ but Itama wouldn’t fall under the same trick - but how Shurama wished to touch the boy’s wet cheeks, trace the lines of Itama’s face, check if where skin changed color felt any different, with his fingers, with his tongue. Taste his tears and sobs with his mouth. 

Itama straightened up and Shurama’s instincts suddenly were on high alert because did just this boy heal himself in this short span of time? How? How did he do it? What kind of medical skill this child had? 

And boy lunged again, this time straight towards Shurama, now both hands blazing with chakra and killing intent filling the air and Itama went straight for his heart - but this time, Shurama was prepared, moving away again and sending a shuriken after the boy. Itama dodged, but Shurama held the wires tight in his hands. 

Itama was a close proximity fighter, while Shurama held his distance. As long as he kept the boy away, he should be fine - Senju tended to have so much more chakra than Uchiha, but Shurama had experience of knowing how to use up his chakra while youth with large reserves could be careless and blaze brightly before being snuffed out. Largest of fires need fuels, and Itama was burning his fast with advanced healing and keeping his only weapon - his hands, his chakra - out so casually.

Shurama was confident, but he shouldn’t be too confident. Carelessness was the worst killer, after all.

He pulled the wires when Itama tried to move closed and the boy didn’t notice the shuriken behind him until it was too late, moving out of it’s way enough to avoid being killed on the spot but the sharp surface sliced through his arm, just under the armor. Itama cried out, hand instinctively flying to his wound but not supporting him as he lost balance and fell face-first into the ground.

Shurama immediately was close, shuriken in hand and he went straight for Itama’s throat - instincts and reflexes taking over but Itama, Itama, he-

He raised undamaged arm and slammed it into the earth and under that soft, soft skin it split right open, it opened right fucking open under that unexpected strenght and Shurama stumbled as that little earthquake shook his bones to the core. He knelt, not being able to regain balance - he assumed that Itama would again retreat to heal himself, but formed signs for a katon, just in case.

He was wrong. 

Itama followed him and chakra-lit fingers dug into the skin of his stomach and even through tightly bound haori, through fireproof layers Shurama felt pain spike up, Itama’s chakra shredding whatever it could reach to blood-red mess, messing with chakra he gathered up in his lungs. 

Shurama had another kunai before a thought about it crossed his mind and slammed it into Itama’s arm. He hoped he could slam it between armor just so he could reach that small heart but earlier damage to the elbow, just one more source of pain screwing his aim. He sliced too much skin this way, blade stopping at bones - and Itama screamed.

They fell like this onto the cracked earth, Itama’s small but armored form slamming into Shurama, and he wasted no time turning their bodies around, catching Itama’s wrists into his hands and pushing them above his head, slamming knees into Itama’s legs, effectively pinning the boy to the ground.

And Shurama was drunk on possibilities, the feel of Itama’s small body underneath making his thoughts spin. He was there, all for him, entirely for him. Pain blossoming in his stomach was secondary, he should worry about the damage but it didn’t matter. It was like a dream, like so many dreams he saw before and-

Itama let out a sob, eyelids shut tight in pain as blood from wound on his arm flowed slowly, sticking to his armor, tainting his skin. Shurama immediately went to unfasten the armor, wanting to see more - that heavy thing annoyed him anyway and it took him longer to take it off than he wanted (it was such a long, long time since he wore armor, when he still could afford it). It was annoyingly cold to the touch but he made a relatively quick work of it, even with one hand. Itama tried to squirm away, little “No, no, don’t!”s, but Shurama ignored them. 

He lowered his head and bit into soft skin - pale, delightfully so - until he could taste blood on his tongue. Itama shuddered under him out of revulsion, his fingers again forming claws out of instinct but he was still pinned. A little trapped animal, trying to get free. He whimpered right into Shurama’s ear and Shurama became acutely aware of how hard he was. 

“You’re mine now, Itama.” he whispered into boy’s ear and licked and kissed his tears away that spilled freely when Itama opened his eyes in shock - he most likely didn’t suspect some Uchiha would know his name, did he? And there was nothing Itama could do to get away, trapped the way he was. 

Itama forced one more whimper through his tightened throat when he felt Shurama’s tongue lap at his skin, kiss his ear first and then bite it. Another weak protest when he felt Shurama’s hardness press against his thighs and Itama tried to stare at him in disbelief, body trying to tremble under Shurama’s weight. 

“Please don’t.”

It was such a quiet plea but Shurama couldn’t help but let out a groan. He pressed his lips right against Itama’s ear.

“Stop me, then, little Senju.” 

And Itama struggled and writhed but he was still too young, too inexperienced and skilled to go toe to toe with Shurama, especially bound like this, not able to use his prime tool of a medic, even a battle medic, his hands - and Shurama had to admit, Itama was skilled, incredibly so. 

But his wrists were thin, bones in them so fragile. Holding them was a delight.

Shurama touched Itama’s jaw, wondering, before pulling on it with his fingers, immobilising his mouth. “If you bite me, I will cut your tongue out.” he threatened and then kissed him. First it was slow, Shurama eagerly pressing their lips together - an almost mockery of a kiss, considering how they both ached so much to slaughter each other - but then he deepened it by pressing nails into Itama’s jaw until the boy opened his mouth. Shurama took his time, exploring Itama’s still mouth, soft lips, sharp teeth, unresponsive tongue. It was almost as good as in his dreams, but in his dreams he could use both arms. 

Ah well.

When he pulled away, he couldn’t help but smile at the way Itama looked him straight in the eyes, more tears falling from corner of his eyes.

“Good boy.” Shurama showed his teeth in a mocking grin and Itama looked away, as if ashamed, and then shut his eyes when Shurama ground his dick against his thighs a bit harder, shuddering harder out of revulsion. 

He wondered if Itama knew what Shurama wanted to do to him, exactly. He knew that Tajima at least once had a more  _ personal  _ encounter with palest and most bloodhungry of Butsuma’s sons. It was a wonder if that pale demon was able to tell his family about what Tajima put him through.

Shurama reached into his pocket, for a wire, and made a quick work of tying Itama’s hands up, palms pressed together so that he wouldn’t be able to make signs nor attack. He pulled it tight enough to not bite into skin and cut bloodflow. There was something ironic in that display of softness. 

Next thing he did was pull out a smaller shuriken (he ran out of kunai but it wasn’t something he was worried about) and made a quick work of Itama’s clothes, cutting the black material open. There was also a layer of steel mesh, and a haramaki snug on Itama’s stomach. It looked handmade, maybe a family member carefully stitched it up for the youngest of siblings? A sharp edge of shuriken made a quick work of it. Greedily he exposed Itama to cold air, tracing the way the skin colors clashed against each other, drinking in the way the boy shivered from cold air, the way his nipples hardened, the way goosebumps appeared on his skin. 

Maybe he won’t remove the mesh yet. It framed that small body all too nicely. 

Shurama pressed more kisses against collarbone, not minding the steel here and there against his lips. His attention was all too focused on Itama himself, on his soft and young skin, on the way he trembled under his touch. Long fingers pulled on the nipples, one a soft rosy pink and other a pretty brown. It was fascinating to explore. 

All that time Itama cried. No more just restrained sobs and whimpers, no more of whispered protests. He seemed resigned and humiliated, elbows bent in an attempt to hide his face away. Shurama bit on the darker nipple, sucked on that hard nub, watched with interest the skin covered in goosebumps. He didn’t think, he didn’t wonder what to do next, driven by a singular desire to possess and own.

Itama was beneath him, only his. It was fair he would be the one to claim him.

He reached down, unfastening Itama’s pants, pulling them down those thin mismatched legs. He smiled - Itama didn’t even try to struggle, kick him when Shurama wasn’t pinning him down with his legs, just lied down, just took it; merely shivered and trembled and cried. Shurama couldn’t resist, he kissed more tears away from the corners of his eyes while sliding a hand under Itama’s fundoshi.

But then he straightened up, curious, sliding fundoshi down to take a closer look and as much as Shurama was generally experienced among young and old, men and women, this was definitely something he has never stumbled on. Shurama tried to spread Itama’s thighs wider, to see, but boy as if awakened again, screamed in protest and tried to close his legs, tried to kick. 

It didn’t take a lot of effort to pin Itama’s ankles above his head. Shurama took a moment to touch the place where he wounded Itama earlier, darker skin unblemished save for a fresh, pale white-pink scar, and Shurama pressed a kiss, a bite here, more blood spilling into his mouth, and here he moved up with his lips and fingers, teeth digging into soft skin under the knees and of inner thighs until he came back to what interested him so.

There was a small penis, much smaller than other boys for sure, but Shurama could blame it on the cold air, but what really interested him is how Itama’s anatomy looked like a blend between that of a man and a woman. There were no testicles and instead there was what looked like larger outer lips of a female’s genitalia and - Shurama covered his fingers in saliva and spread them, wider until he pushed inside and boy failed to swallow that whimper down. 

That was  _ interesting _ .

Shurama pressed his lips against Itama’s dick (or was it a clitoris? It was hard to say), curious, eager to explore and ignored more cries - Itama was scared, Itama was humiliated but Shurama could take one more bit of autonomy from him, Shurama could try and turn his own body against him. The cold would make it more difficult, but not entirely impossible. 

He pressed his hands into those soft thighs, sliding them up and down as he licked, sucked on Itama’s dick, on those big lips, on everything that he could reach. There was something delightful in exploration of this body, so different from all he saw so far - and hearing Itama’s cries turn more desperate as he felt that small dick harden against his palate, as he tasted more liquid mixed into his saliva - all of this was all too intoxicating. 

Shurama glanced at Itama - the boy was staring at some point above Shurama, as if dazed, unfocused, whimpers being more like something he didn’t control consciously and instead trying to detach himself. And Shurama had none of that. 

He pressed those thin ankles harder against the ground to reach out and slap Itama. Again. Once more for good measure. 

The pale cheek reddened so much faster, he noted, satisfied, as he watched Itama blink and work his mouth noiselessly, trying to find words but ultimately failing. There were no more tears bot those he had in corners of his eyes, wet lines sliding into his hair and headband. And when Itama looked at Shurama, foolishly straight into his eyes, Shurama had him again.

And he will ensure that Itama felt everything. 

It was just that, focus, but through the genjutsu Shurama drunk in Itama’s despair which the boy tried to push away, trying to distract himself. The focus on memories of father’s warm embrace or brother’s happy banter or half-forgotten mother’s smile - Shurama snatched it away and choked it down, grounding Itama firmly in reality of being wounded, of being so shamefully stripped and spread open under his enemy. There was hatred. Oh, under all those emotions there was hatred, burning bright and breathtaking and Shurama felt so deeply how much Itama wanted to bury his teeth in Shurama’s arteries, if not for how scared Itama was.

Shurama curiously inserted a finger deep inside Itama’s body, probing, wondering. Before, he was prepared for more standard body of a young boy, but maybe he could work with what he had here. Careful prodding with two fingers, exploration of that sweetly warm and tight space ensured him that he could use that. There was no blood when he retreated them, just enough wetness to make him even more excited when he tasted it. 

Shurama shivered when his cold hand touched his skin when he slid his pants a bit down, enough to free his cock. For a moment he could sympathise with Itama, clothes ripped away like this in this cold, but merely for a bit. He was still warm inside. 

There was a spike of hatred when Shurama lined himself up against Itama’s hole, mixing precome and wetness and spreading it around, so Shurama pressed one of boy’s ankles into the ground more firmly. 

“Please-.”

And there, he pressed inside, loudly inhaling as those hot walls tightened around his sensitive cock. A shudder of revulsion wrecked with boy’s body, body trying to move back and forth against the ground, to try and get away from pain, but Shurama pressed his hips on. There was some resistance inside, but it didn’t matter anymore - he merely moved his hips a little bit away just to slam inside, eager to be fully engulfed in this small body. 

He quickly picked up a rhythm, bending Itama in half and putting both hands on boy’s ankles for balance and to keep him in place. His hair fell out of ponytail and obscured his vision a bit, but what he saw was enough, seeing Itama like this, bent just for him, eyes chained to his firmly and pain bending that young face into a grimace- oh, all he missed were white lilies woven into his hair.

Ah, there was one more thing. 

Shurama reached out for a second and snatched that headband off Itama’s forehead, grasping the Senju symbol before throwing it aside. It was what he wanted to get rid of first but he was sufficiently distracted. Maybe it was unfitting but Shurama pressed kisses against Itama’s face and neck as he fucked him roughly. Raped him, pushing out cries out of Itama’s with each thrust and that was a fitting word, no matter how many times he pressed his kisses against those soft wet cheeks. 

Shurama came almost embarrassingly fast, a rarity considering his age, but all of this was too much. A mere thought of Itama being taken like this, under him, was enough to make his head spin but this, this was entirely too much for Shurama. He thrust himself balls-deep inside Itama, releasing here. For a second he wondered if Itama could have children, he would still have a child's body if he was a boy but a girl this age could… 

But did it matter? He slid out and wiped his dick against that offending headband before fixing his pants. Itama was still as he left him, shivering from cold and hatred, bound hands curled into fists so tight they trembled. Come spilled out from his inside, trickling down his ass and thigh. Debauched and abused and so, so fragile. 

There was one thing left to do, then.

Shurama pulled Itama’s legs, letting him lie down and sat above him, stroked his cheeks and hair, finally free from being bound. He played for a little bit with them, curious about the difference in texture. 

“Let me go,” Itama let out quietly, voice cracking and it was a wonder that he was still conscious. 

“I will.” 

And Shurama bowed and pressed a kiss against that small forehead and Itama let out a whimper as Shurama stroked his face, that adorable face he wished to have for himself but alas, alas. All he needed was one stroke of a hand with a blade he hid in his sleeve against that small exposed throat. It was enough. Whimper turned into gurgle and blood flowed freely, spilling out of Itama’s mouth and neck slit open, staining more of his skin as Itama was spitting out more and more blood with each desperate breath and heartbeat. His legs kicked, desperately but it was too late.

Shurama watched, and then kissed Itama, pressing their lips together, feeling blood against his mouth and tongue. His fingers found boy’s wrist and so he stole selfishly Itama’s last breaths, waiting for him to die.

It didn’t take long. 

Shurama straightened up and got to freeing Itama’s hands. They were cold and unmoving, and Shurama took off his haori and slowly dressed Itama’s corpse in it. It was easy enough, but he was slow, too slow. The wound on his stomach, now that his adrenaline levels were falling down, was being more and more painful with every passing second. He still managed, though, but it took him so much longer than he wished for.

He really wanted to see Itama in Uchiha colors, with the uchiwa fan on his back. A final claim that he could put on this boy, and as Itama lied down like, body covered in dark violet and even with blood and tears on his face, he looked serene after Shurama closed his eyes. Claimed in a way Shurama couldn’t describe, deeper than just skin-deep, more emotional. 

Shurama genuinely wished they had more time but it was the only way, was it? He had to kill the boy, and he wanted to possess him. He didn’t see any other way but to do this. 

He loathed to go, but then he realized he struggled to get up. Fuck. Shurama had no idea what Itama has damaged but it was a good question, whether or not it was something vital, and either way he doubted he would find medic fast enough. He could try to run - but he could only walk just to the closest tree and support himself against the rough bark. He glanced at Itama’s body left behind. 

He  _ so _ loathed to go. He didn’t want to never see Itama again. Putting his head against the bark and ignoring the dark spots in his eyes to stare at the corpse of a boy that possessed his thoughts so sounded tempting, but all he allowed himself was just a few more minutes registering what he saw with his Sharingan. 

It was dark, it was silent, it was cold. Being here felt in a strange way like intrusion - he  _ did  _ rape and kill Itama. He stole everything he could from the child, the only souvenir being every precious second imprinted into his brain with his eyes. Shurama turned to leave, to try and get back to his clan but- 

He didn’t hear footsteps, he didn’t hear the sound of heavy armor, he didn’t he didn’t and now it was the second time this very night Shurama didn’t trust his sight because in front of him was Senju Butsuma.

With his eyes firmly on Itama lying on the ground, Uchiha crest visible on his child’s back, Butsuma looked at Shurama and Shurama’s brain managed to think only one thought under the onslaught of the killing intent coming from Senju clanshead. 

He was already dead. 

Butsuma reached out and slammed Shurama against the tree, this face twisted into fury being the last thing Shurama saw before he felt a fist slam into his stomach. Even though the internal wound was undamaged, pain spread violently in his body, and the Butsuma hit him, time and time again, and Shurama doubled up, barely able to keep balance. Butsuma merely held him by his collar and slammed him against the tree, head first.

Shurama fell and he could barely see (Did Butsuma want to finish him off now? How will Butsuma kill him? There was no doubt about it.) but he still turned to where Itama was lying, struggling to see him some more between spots flying in his vision, despite pain trying to force him to curl over damaged parts of his body. Butsuma kicked him, again and again and Shurama spit out vomit and blood, wheezed with blood mixing with oxygen but he didn’t shut his eyes. 

Itama was his. Shurama claimed him. That much will remain unchanged.

A rough hand grabbed him by the base of his hair and pulled and slammed his head against the tree trunk, over and over. Shurama realized through buzzing noise in his head that Butsuma was yelling.

And that his own lips were curled in a smirk, despite blood on his face. Ah, they matched now, didn’t they?

He was allowed one more glance at Itama, chakra bursting one final time to burn the image of Itama’s corpse into retina before he lost sight completely, before Butsuma kicked him away, towards the nearby rock and before slamming his fists and feet (so barbaric, Butsuma had swords with him after all) hard enough against this harder surface, still shouting in increasingly hoarse voice, until Butsuma’s limbs were buried inside Shurama’s lifeless body, sticky with Uchiha blood. 

Itama’s body was buried, that much was known from Tajima, but he never addressed the disappearance of his younger brother, neither publicly nor privately. Shurama’s squad could merely wring their hands, not seeing their partner after they separated. The fact was that nearly nobody knew if Shurama’s grave was ever occupied by his ashes, but Tajima burned his body himself and that his children noticed his grief afterwards. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> For now this work is marked as finished, but... I want to write a second chapter with a different ending. For now though I doubt I will write it, this fic took me more than half of year to write and I'm a bit busy so for now - it's finished. Feel free to subscribe though if you wish to see the continuation. I will write it, just... not now. 
> 
> I can't help but hc Itama as intersex and with vitiligo. Because I can. I love him a lots so I am just gonna throw whatever hc I feel like. Yes. 
> 
> I am not sorry.
> 
> If anyone feels sad, next comic will involve cute Itama and some consensual porn with Tobirama. As in, not Itama with Tobirama but like. He's involved. Lmao you'll see, but Itama will be cute and happy, trust me.


End file.
